“If I send you, Bart, it must be to-night, with a letter for the governor, one which, I am sure, he will respond to, when he hears from you of the enormous wealth of the canyon and the mine. Now go and consult with the Beaver as to the track you had better follow so as to avoid the Indians. I must take a few precautions against attack, for they seem to be coming straight on, and I sadly fear that they mean to invest us now.”
Bart found the Beaver, who was watching his natural foes, the Apachés, along with Joses, as they talked together in a low tone.
“I am going to ride back to Lerisco for help,” said Bart suddenly.
“You are, my lad?” cried Joses. “I shall go too.”
“But you have no horse, Joses,” said Bart smiling, and the rough fellow smote himself heavily on the chest.
“It is good,” said the Beaver in his calm way. “My young men would like to ride with you, but it cannot be.”
“Tell me, Beaver, how I had better go so as to escape the Apachés.”
“The young chief must ride out as soon as it is dark, and go straight for the lake, and round its end, then straight away. The Apaché dogs will not see him; if they do, they will not catch him in the dark. Ugh!” he ejaculated with a look of contempt, “the Apaché dogs are no match for the young chief.”
Bart could not help feeling very strangely excited as the evening approached, the more especially that the Apachés had come close on several hundred strong, and they could see them from the rock lead their horses down into the lake for water, and then remount them again, while a couple of small parties remained on foot, and it seemed possible that they intended to make an attack upon the fortress, for they were all well-armed.
“I shouldn’t wonder if we have a bad storm to-night, Master Bart,” said Joses, as the sun set in a band of curious coppery-coloured clouds, while others began to form rapidly all over the face of the heavens, with a strangely weird effect. “You won’t go if the weather’s bad, I s’pose, my lad?”